


Far From Any Road

by Ragingbulldurham



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Movie, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragingbulldurham/pseuds/Ragingbulldurham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The road was completely washed out. It wasn’t a dirt road any longer. It wasn’t even a mud road. It was a fucking river.</i>
</p><p>Written for the prompt: A tropical storm hits the island and the roads are washed out so Claire is stuck with Owen in his bungalow for a few days. 'Consulting' may or may not happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far From Any Road

**Author's Note:**

> Another prompt! This one was by the wonderful daylightspeaks:
> 
> A tropical storm hits the island and the roads are washed out so Claire is stuck with Owen in his bungalow for a few days. 'Consulting' may or may not happen. 
> 
> The title is from the band The Handsome Family. Thanks for reading!

Tropical storms were a fact of life in Central America.

Claire didn’t usually worry too much about it. They would come, fast, heavy rains and high winds, and they leave just as quickly.

So when the sky above her turned dark and the wind began to whip up as she drove towards Owen Grady’s bungalow, she didn’t really worry too much about it. Hopefully she could get out there and back before it hit. Otherwise she might be forced to hunker down in her car until it passed.

Because there was no way in hell she was stepping foot inside that bungalow. Not again.

(The first time had been a mistake. It was after their disastrous first _and only_ date. Owen infuriated her in a way that very few people could, got under her skin in a way that very people had, and despite turning down tequila, she _had_ had enough vodka and diet sodas to fell a horse.

She blamed that for the fact that her ability to make a good decision flew out the window right about the same time that Owen plucked a piece of paper that had fallen out of her purse from the ground and unfolded it before she could snatch it out of his hands.

“You made an itinerary?” His voice was incredulous, and Claire felt cheeks turn red.

“I’m an organized person. I like things to be on schedule,” she muttered. “Unlike _some of us_.”

“I was three minutes late!” Owen exclaimed.

“Seven,” Claire shot back, and then before she knew it, his mouth was on hers, and he was driving her car back windy roads to his tiny shack at the edge of the water. They tumbled out of the car and towards the door, and Claire woke up the next morning feeling hungover and stupid. She had hurried out before he could wake up, scribbling a note on the back of the itinerary telling him she hadn’t meant to let that happen. It was unprofessional and wouldn’t happen again.

And she hadn’t quite decided if she was upset or not that it _hadn’t_ happened again.)

She pulled up to find Owen tinkering on his bike in front of the bungalow, and she hated herself for it, but she checked her appearance in the mirror, smoothing down some wayward hairs, before climbing out.

“Mr. Grady,” she greeted, and to her dismay, he gave her a cocky grin.

“We’re back to Mr. Grady?” He smirked. “Owen.”

“Mr. Grady,” Claire ignored. “Do you have any time today? Mr. Masrani would like to discuss the progress being made with the raptors.”

“And he sent you out to summon me?” Owen’s smirk didn’t look like it was going anywhere anytime soon, and it was just then that Claire felt the first rain drop.

“Do you have any time today?” Claire repeated. “To consult?”

“Oh yeah,” Owen grinned. “I have time to _consult._ ” Claire huffed, as the rain started falling harder.

“You know what I mean,” she said. She was about to ask him if he could hurry, before the rain really started, when the skies opened up and dumped down a bucket of water, drenching her before the words made it out of her mouth.

“Shit,” Owen swore, throwing a tarp over his bike. “Come on, let’s get inside.” Claire hesitated for a minute, glancing back at her car. “Are you coming?” And she decided it was silly to sit in her car, and darted into the house behind him.

She shook off her wet suit jacket, laying it to dry over the back of a chair, and Owen ran around closing some of the windows to stop the rain coming in sideways. Claire stood in the middle of his living room, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering, not quiet knowing what to do with herself, until Owen reappeared.

“Here,” he held out a towel which she took gratefully. “Looks like we’re stuck here for a little while.” Claire glanced down at her watch. She absolutely did not have the time to be stuck anywhere for a little while. “You can’t go anywhere, you might as well relax.” He disappeared into the tiny kitchen. “Want a beer?”

“No thank you,” Claire answered immediately, and then regretted it. A beer _would_ be nice. And Owen was right, she wasn’t going anywhere for a while. Not until the storm passed. “Actually, yes, I would like one.” And Owen reappeared, his eyebrows raised in surprise, and then turned around and went back into the kitchen, grabbing another beer out of the small fridge and passing it off to her.

“You can sit, you know,” he gestured to the sofa, and she let herself drop down, gripping the bottle in her hand. He lifted the beer in a cheer, and smiled at her. “To tropical storms.”

Claire didn’t answer, just tipped the bottle back and took a long drink.

* * *

When the rain finally stopped, after what felt like forever, Owen changed his clothes and followed Claire out to her car. She sunk almost immediately into the mud, and she sighed, but climbed in and waited for Owen to get in the passenger seat.

“Thank you,” she said as they started towards the small, dirt road that lead back to the park. “For the beer, and you know, giving me shelter during an actual storm.”

“Anytime,” Owen replied, and she glanced over at him expecting to see his usual shit-eating grin, but he seemed completely sincere. It made her feel things that she wasn’t quite comfortable with feeling, and she was saved from having to think too hard about it by Owen’s low, utterance, “shit.”

_Shit._

The road was completely washed out. It wasn’t a dirt road any longer. It wasn’t even a mud road. It was a fucking river.

“Oh shit,” Claire echoed. She reached for her phone, dialing Lowery in the control room and tapping her fingers against the steering wheel while she waited.

“Lowery! I’m up on the north western part of the island, and the road is completely washed out,” Claire explained.

“Yeah,” the phone crackled, and Owen strained to hear Lowery’s side. “That storm was a doozy. There’s a ton of clean up all over the place. A lot of the roads are completely impassable. Especially in that part of the island. Are you somewhere safe? It’s going to be a while.”

“Define a while,” Claire demanded.

“Could be a couple of days,” Lowery replied.

“A couple of days!” Claire shrieked. “You’ve got to be _kidding_ me.”

“I’m sorry, Claire, there’s not much we can do. There’s just no way to get up there at the moment. Can you find shelter somewhere?” Claire didn’t even want to look over at Owen. She knew without having to turn her head that his shit-eating grin was back on his face.

“I guess I’ll have to,” she snapped, and hung up. She placed her head on the steering wheel and didn’t dare look at Owen.

“You can stay with me, Claire,” Owen offered, and she could _hear_ the smirk. “All you have to do is ask nicely.” She straightened up, leaning her head back against the head rest and let out a long suffering sigh.

“Would it be okay if I stayed with you?” She mumbled. “Until the roads open up again?”

“Of course,” Owen scoffed. “What am I, some kind of monster? You think I’d just leave you out here in your car? Do you even know what kinds of things could be in these woods?”

Claire put the car in reverse and headed back towards the bungalow.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she muttered, as she parked in front and climbed back out for the second time that day. “A couple of days.”

“It’ll be great,” Owen said, slamming the passenger door. “Like a slumber party. I’ve never been to one, mind you, but I’ve heard great things.” He lead the way back inside. “I’ll try to find something more comfortable for you to change into. You’re going to be here a while.”

* * *

It was not how Claire had expected to be spending her night.

Not in one of Owen’s camping chairs on his deck (after the storm had rolled through, the weather had turned beautiful. Claire had scoffed, “figures,” and Owen had chuckled, the sound of which made her feel warm and full, and she wouldn’t let herself think about what that meant), wrapped in an old t-shirt of his and a pair of his boxer shorts, too big even folded over a couple of times, her feet up on the railing, a beer in her hand. Not in a million years.

But, when she was being honest with herself, this was _actually_ nice.

Owen was a good conversationalist. Funny, with a dry humor that she appreciated, far smarter than she gave him credit for being, and passionate about his job, about the raptors.

She laughed more than she had laughed in a long time, felt lighter than she had in a long time, and it wasn’t just because she was a little more than a little drunk.

It was after she tipped over her half empty bottle that Owen, with a wide smile, told her that they should probably call it a night.

“We have to save our rations,” he said. “God only knows how long we’re stuck out here. And we certainly don’t want to run out of beer.”

“God forbid,” Claire pressed a hand to her chest in mock outrage, and Owen shook his head with a grin. He straightened, reaching a hand down and tugging her to her feet. She stumbled a little bit, falling into his chest, and he steadied her, with a murmured,

“Easy.”

She felt the loss of his warm hand on her arm immediately when he pulled away to walk into the house, and she reminded herself to keep it together. She closed the door behind her, dropping onto the couch, about to lay down when Owen’s voice stopped her.

“You’re taking the bed,” he gestured to the back room, and Claire’s eyebrows sloped down in confusion.

“No, I’m fine on the couch,” she insisted. “I can’t kick you out of your own bed.”

“The couch is terrible to sleep on, I should know I’ve fallen asleep on it enough times,” he replied. “Take the bed.”

“No, I can’t do that,” Claire shook her head.

“Claire,” he tried.

“Owen,” she countered. There was a silent showdown before she sighed. “Why don’t we just share the bed? We’re adults.” He didn’t look sold, so she pulled out her trump card. “We’ve shared the bed before.”

“And you snuck out in the morning,” he pointed out.

“Well, I can’t do that again, can I?” Claire shot back. She half expected him to keep arguing with her, so she was slightly surprised when he acquiesced. Owen offered his hand once again to pull her to her feet, and lead her back to the bedroom.

“Do we need to make a pillow wall between us?” He teased as Claire slide under the covers.

“Maybe,” she pretended to think about it seriously. “In case you get handsy.” It was the alcohol, she knew, making her flirty and bold (because she was good at a lot of things, but she had never been very good at flirting).

Owen reached over and flipped off the light, plunging the room into darkness, and felt the bed dip as he climbed in next to her.

“Would that be the worst thing in the world?” He asked in a low voice, and without thinking too hard about it, Claire rolled towards him in the bed, tangling her legs between his and pressing her lips to his, biting down slightly on his lips.

 _This could be a very bad idea,_ she thought. _Or a very good one._

* * *

When Claire stepped into the control room three days later, Lowery looked up and grinned.

“You survived,” he exclaimed. “We had bets on which one of you killed the other first. Don’t worry, my money was on you.”

“What did I miss?” She asked, taking a sip of her coffee and ignoring Lowery. He began to fill her in, starting with clean up from the storm, when his eyes widened and he sucked in a breath. “What?”

“Is that…” Lowery shook his head in disbelief. “Is that a _hickey_?” And Claire’s hands shot up to her neck, her face flushing.

“Damn it, Owen,” she growled.


End file.
